


Livin' It Up, Strider Style

by Hellacious



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Home, Multi, Post-Sburb, Psychological Trauma, Smuppets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-27
Updated: 2012-03-09
Packaged: 2017-10-30 05:10:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hellacious/pseuds/Hellacious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dave hosts Bro in his apartment in Portland.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Housekeeping

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly just a warmup fic gone wild. Attack it or praise it as you will. I might continue this if I feel like it... (Psst I will because I love Dave & Bro fics)

"Bro, for the last fucking time, will you get these puppets out of my goddamn bathroom?" You hear a faint "Nope" from somewhere in the rafters, and resign yourself to pissing off the roof, because your dear, sweet bro would probably cut you in half if he found a trace of urine on the bouquet of puppets protruding from your porcelain throne.

Your name is David Motherfucking Strider, you are nineteen years old, and you are tired of this bullshit.

You moved out at the first chance you could get - right when you got your license - and the lack of someone to hold down the fort at the apartment caused Bro to get evicted. Within minutes, you found yourself hosting his sorry ass while he found odd jobs to pay the rent you imposed on him. It's been two years now, and he hasn't moved out yet. You think it's justified that you call in some artillery to get him and his plush effigies out of your fucking house.

***

You just got caught in your zipper.

You take a special moment to launch a silent "bitch, please" to any and all women who've complained to you about how much less complicated being male is. At least vaginas are far harder to hurt than the manlier variety.

Predictably, this is the exact moment when Bro attempts to jump on you like he's the dude from Shank: smuppet in one hand, outrageously high-quality katana in the other. His graceful form would have gotten a ten out of ten if you hadn't danced aside at the last minute, still wrestling with your pants and their unfortunate victim. 

"Were those particular puppets too much for you, lil bro? Did'ja have to pop up here for a quickie?" He throws you the sword just in time for you to finally get your dick in your pants, and you catch it without looking. 

You realize, far too late than you should, that he had switched out the sword with the smuppet mid-throw. Seeing as Bro has absconded, you decide to dispose of the abhorrent thing in patented Dick® fashion.

***

You whip out the precious piece of irony that is your custom-made Zippo lighter. Chromed silver and emblazoned with the characters "420" across the side in green Swarovski crystals, anyone looking would think you're the most successful marijuana dealer in the world. In reality, that dubious honor falls to your dear brother, who, despite your repeated objections, elects to light up a cigarette or joint every time you two are in the same room. You bought this lighter out of irony, and your brother seems to have taken it as a challenge. You can hardly do anything now without uncovering another of his stashes.

You wish he would at least share occasionally.

Back to the present, you proceed to set fire to the ludicrous puppet dangling from your hand. After you've propped it up on its snout, you punt it flaming off the roof into the majestically ghetto skyline of northeast Portland.

When you return to your (more than modest) apartment, the first thing you trip over is a wooden block just inside the door frame which was originally intended to keep intruders out, until you realized that the door opens outward. It gets you every time. Collecting yourself, you proceed deeper into the apartment.

You never expected the next thing you trip over to be Bro.

***

Your brother is passed out on the floor, which is, surprisingly, a position you've never seen him in.

You're lying on the ground about a foot away from him. As you collect yourself, you begin to piece together the circumstances your Bro has landed himself in this time. He was probably drunk off his ass when he confronted you, and as he absconded, probably fell down the stairs. Walking over, you nimbly dodge the (not so shitty) sword _stuck in the ground_ next to him. Must've been quite the fall.

After you roll his comatose body onto the couch he's made his home, you take time to observe your flat: Waterfront area, floor-to-ceiling window on one end, nice and spacious. Shag rugs on the floor in various shades from hot pink to zebra striped complement the blocky white IKEA furniture. Roof access was included in the package, which surprised you, seeing as the building you're in is a minor skyscraper. You turn your attention to the very sparsely stocked bar - you're fucking _nineteen_ \- and resolve to clean out all of your brother's empties.

You never paid much attention to what your brother was drinking, and now that you look through these bottles, you wonder why his liver hasn't leaped out of his throat and shot him already. Jägermeister, Bacardi, Padron, Jack, even a small bottle of fucking Everclear. You decide that the lineup is photo-worthy, so you spend a moment fiddling with your extremely expensive DSLR before lining up the perfect shot.

Snap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Growin' up Strider - Land of Fans and Music


	2. THE REDUX

"Dave, you know what I want?"

"Bro, you have said that to me four fucking times in the last 23 minutes. What you want is no concern of mine and never was." You are tired of this insufferable dick. He's been living here almost as long as you have, and he acts like he owns the place. At least 90% of the random shit you find lying around your pad belongs to him or one of the girls he brings here. He regularly hosts parties in his (rather spacious) room, which more often than not will spill out into your turf. You suspect he's still making shitty fetish porn, and up until recently had a "ninja fight club" on the roof. In fact, the only reason you haven't kicked him out is because he (occasionally) pays rent.

Not that you need the money, though. Your web comic has finally become the Internet sensation you've always expected it to be, and you're making quite a hefty sum from the merchandising opportunities that arise from Internet fame. You have also recently released a short film - shot by yourself, of course - that documents your comic's rise from the seedy underbelly of the Internet to the glitz and glam of mainstream stardom. You've always contemplated going into film, but you never tried until now.

"I want you to get me a drink; I'm so fucking thirsty it's hard to think. So sorry for the puppet, should've thought before I threw; just didn't expect what karma would do."

"I'm not rapping with you until you sober up, bro. Your rhymes are so weak right now it's painful to hear." You try to keep him talking when he's this inebriated, like a good little bro. Some lines cannot be crossed though, such as your number 1 house rule: "NO RAPPING UNLESS YOU'RE BRINGING YOUR A-GAME." Right now, you'd grade your brother as a D plus, maximum. That shit was pitiful.

Suddenly, your phone starts blasting out the main synthesizer line of a song you wrote a long time ago, called Beatdown. Looking at the caller ID, you see a name you haven't seen in a very, very long time.

"Sup, this is Strider," you say, putting on your trademark monotone.

"Hey, Dave!" A voice that sounds uncannily similar to your sister's almost hits you in the face as it comes shooting out of the phone.

"Rose? When did you lose that oh-so-refined demeanor?" Although the voice is almost exactly the same, the exuberance is foreign.

"I'm terribly sorry. I had to leave it behind for the noble cause of regaining my phone from your lover," says your sister, the most prominent source of snarky horseshit in your life.

"She isn't my lover."

"I think her interpretation of the situation differs quite a lot from yours in this case."

"Wait, why are you even anywhere near her? Doesn't she still live on hellmurder island or whatever?"

Her voice immediately takes on a very superior tone. "In order to obtain new locales for my series, I prefer to visit them myself. 

Your conversation goes on for a good while, and you learn just how busy she's gotten over the past few years. Apparently she found a strapping young man to give her a child, but in typical Lalonde fashion, he turned out to be infertile. Thus she adopted a child, renaming her Roxanne. The fact that you now have a niece hits you like a train.

"But what happened to the dude?"

"Oh, he departed after he realized just how disinterested I was sexually."

You couldn't have found a better time for your phone's battery to die. Turning around to get your charger - you're a very busy man, and it would be very bad if someone important were to call you right now - you almost run directly into your brother. He shouldn't even be up yet, but you've come to realize that the man is a fucking tank. 

"When are you gettin' more groceries, lil bro? The pad is lookin' pretty bare."

"Buy your own fucking groceries, dude. You're old enough to actually have a steady job, so get out there and make some goddamn money."

With that, you slink off into the deepest recess of your apartment: your room.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it! This is going the be my main (quite possibly my only) fic on this site, so I'll be updating it til the day I die!
> 
> (Also, I thrive on comments. Even if you're bashing my work, EVERY SINGLE COMMENT IS APPRECIATED!)


End file.
